


suffered shipwrecks right from the start

by crownedcarl



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Gen, Identity Issues, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Alternating, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 11:33:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18248993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownedcarl/pseuds/crownedcarl
Summary: I will see you soon,Theon had said, sure of it then in a way he no longer is. His sister had stared at him in a way that was unnerving, her arms crossed, an expression of almost-grief crossing her face as she repliedno. You will never come home again.Years later, as he leaves Robb for the first and final time, the words ring true once again.





	suffered shipwrecks right from the start

**Author's Note:**

> title from basic space by the xx. this is mainly based on the tv show rather than the books, with a great amount of inspiration owed to janie_tangerine - after reading her works obsessively over the past couple of days, it kickstarted this story that i've word vomited into existence. hopefully, you'll enjoy it & let me know what you think in the comments (◡‿◡✿)

_i._

_Robb_

__

The last time that Robb sees Theon, Theon is bidding him goodbye, clasping his shoulder, eyes bright with the promise of his father's ships. _I will see it done,_ he claims, grin crooked and boyish in a way it hasn't been in years, his windswept hair obscuring the curve of his mouth and for a moment, Robb feels a pang of longing for those simpler days, filled with childish adventures Theon always humoured him in. 

It can never be that way again. Robb lets go of his grip on Theon's arm, his smile a tight and tender thing. _Come home safe,_ Robb says. _Come home,_ he says, but Theon doesn't hear him, already mounting his horse, cloak draped across his shoulders in the morning breeze. He looks back at Robb, briefly, unsmiling, an unnerving look for such a normally carefree man. 

He looks at Robb for a long time, staring silently before he urges his horse into a trot away from the camp, towards the docks, towards a life Robb cannot be a part of, away down the winding road. 

His mother's shrewd eye lingers as Robb walks back towards his tent, ducking inside, her stern gaze burning at the back of his skull. “You trust him,” she says, as if this is a newfound revelation and not a truth rooted in years of camaraderie, “Far too much, I fear.” 

“Why?” Robb questions, his voice ground into exhaustion, his fingers finding the hilt of his sword for some semblance of comfort, a familiar weight in his palm. “What do you fear?” 

He has never seen her eyes this dark before, nor this bottomless, as if she's seen more than she can bear, carrying a shroud of grief about her shoulders, akin to storm clouds on the horizon. Robb swallows, looks away. 

“I fear for you,” his mother says, sitting down delicately, putting her head in her hands. “I fear for you, Robb. He will betray you. It's in his nature.” 

Nothing in this world is certain. Robb has always known this, but despite the imploring eyes of his mother, nothing will shake his belief in Theon, in Theon’s belief in this plan. “He will come back,” Robb says, “He will come back, with or without the ships," and his mother glances at Robb as if she cannot comprehend how he cares more for Theon's return than the ships themselves, her spine going rigid. 

He is as unmoving as a rock. The conviction cannot be shattered, despite the countless attempts and the countless years spanning them, Robb’s chest tight at the realization of how much Theon has come to mean to him. He has never quite been the confidante that Jon managed to be, but he has always been there during the times that Robb has needed him the most, using nothing but a clever tongue to bring Robb nearly to the point of laughing himself into tears, draining away all his worries. 

He has always been good at that, Robb thinks, feeling his mother’s touch on his cheek, gently stroking as if he were a child. Robb allows it to happen, a momentary reprieve in a sea of councils and marching and slaughter, his heart slowly calming from the frantic gallop their argument had spurred it into. “I know you worry,” he says, “But I trust him. Why can’t you trust me?” 

During his youth, ended now that his father lies dead in King's Landing, Robb was frequently struck by the feeling that perhaps nobody else in the world understood him as Theon did and always has. He continues to see past Robb's defences with an uncanny accuracy, always knowing when to jest, when to pry a reluctant smile out of the cavernous depth of Robb's uncertainty and despair. It keeps him sane, as of late. It might always have kept him from teetering over the brink. 

His mother's eyes are softer, now. “I do,” she promises, with only a small amount of hesitation. “I trust you.” 

Heart sinking, Robb resigns himself to the knowledge that this is as far as his mother is willing to bend, allowing the compromise while his chest constricts painfully. For all the faith everyone else seems to lack in Theon, Robb has enough for every man in his army, both the living and the dead, despite everything else. To hell with the opinions of his men. He will see Theon home, greet him as a brother, if it's the last thing he does. 

-

There's always been something queer about Theon's smiles. It takes a while for Robb to notice, but once he makes the connection between the curve of Theon’s mouth and the absence of light in his eyes, it becomes painfully clear that there is no real mirth in his friend’s eyes, these days, these cold days filled with councils and strategy and the many other painful realities of war.

His men have lost sons and fathers and cousins and friends. Robb has lost little, other than his father and his innocence, but the sickening train of thought stops as Robb gazes upon his mother and scolds himself for his childishness, guilty and grief-stricken. There is a shadow at his shoulder, a familiar one, slender fingers curling around his shoulder and squeezing in a reassurance that Robb desperately needs.

“It will be worth it,” Theon says, “Once this is over and Joffrey’s head is on a spike.”

Will it, Robb wonders, or will bloodshed always simply breed more bloodshed? He sighs, crossing his arms, keeping Theon at bay, watching as his eyes narrow in something that might be approaching disappointment, or perhaps guilt. Robb can never tell, anymore, offering a brittle smile that only Theon is privy to, the two of them standing between the flickering flames of two torches, far away from the mirth and drinking of the camp and the men and the women who followed the men into war. “Once it is over,” Robb whispers, “Father will still be dead.”

“Yes,” Theon agrees, “But he will have justice and you will have a crown. There are worse ways to end a war.”

The dead care nothing for justice, Robb thinks, seething with anger before he manages to get his temper under control. Theon is responsible for many of his sorrows, but not this one, the one that cuts the deepest. “And you?” Robb questions, glancing sidelong at Theon, watching as his shoulders tense at the prodding. “What will become of you, after the war?”

He can see Theon cast in warm light, the profile of his face seeming very fragile; from the slight slope of his forehead to the curve of his nose, the slight stubble adorning his cheeks and, finally, the parted slick curve of his lips, lips that Robb can never taste again. All of him seems so breakable under these circumstances, his body giving Robb every indication that it no longer wishes to be touched. “You shouldn’t ask stupid questions,” Theon tells him, a biting anger behind the words. “Where else could I go but back to Winterfell, a ward now and always?”

The reminder burns, but it is a fair criticism that Robb invited of his own volition. He has never been naive enough to forget what Theon is, at the end of the day, this seemingly endless war not changing the very simple fact that Theon is, above all else, a prisoner in invisible chains, allowed a freedom he can never quite use. It makes his throat tight, makes him swallow thickly, one hand hesitantly drifting to the bend of Theon’s shoulder, relieved to find no resistance in the muscle and sinew that flexes briefly beneath his touch.

“I’m sorry,” Robb croaks, his voice all but gone. All day, he’s spoken to the bannermen about battle plans and casualties, where to cross and who to fell first. Speaking to Theon is a welcome reprieve that he has sorely missed, even now, as the chasm between them grows ever larger and deeper. “I wish things could be different. I meant no slight, Theon. You have never been a prisoner to me.”

“Perhaps not,” Theon sighs, glancing at Robb and quickly away, his mouth opening and closing once, twice before he manages to speak again. “But then, what am I to you? What, Robb?”

Gods, there are some things Robb is not ready for. This is one of them: the undoing of Theon and Robb, or perhaps the rebirth. Either way, nothing has ever brought Robb as low as this one moment, being regarded by Theon as a stranger after ten years of brotherhood that was never quite _just_ that. What is Theon to him? What, indeed.

At some point, the illusion of intimacy has broken. He doesn’t know Theon any better than he did on that first day, during Theon’s arrival, standing as tall as a frightened boy of ten could in a strange and cold new place. Robb sees that same lost look on Theon’s face now, cast in doubt, attempting to preserve his dignity by refusing to meet Robb’s eyes as he awaits an answer, the cut of his jaw strained from grinding his teeth. It must be painful, but it doesn’t seem to bother Theon. Nothing ever seems to bother Theon.

Robb deflates, suddenly, releasing all the tension and displeasure that has been looming over him as a stormcloud on a sunny day. His hand tightens around Theon’s arm, wishing there were fewer barriers between them, fewer layers for him to strip back. “If there are words,” Robb laments, “I don’t have them, I’m afraid. Let me show you.”

He walks into his tent, not leading or dragging Theon with him. It has to be Theon’s choice, Robb reminds himself, just as it was Theon’s choice to walk away, that one summer’s day in Winterfell, turning his back to Robb and strolling leisurely away with that awful, awful grin plastered on his face. Robb remembers it less vividly, now, but the ache still remains.

After a moment, the rustle of the tent flap sounds in his ears. Robb does not smile, but he turns around, unfastening his cloak, shedding his gloves and methodically unlacing his boots, as if this is a regular occurrence between them after so long without the ritual. Theon, for all that he has never been cowed by much, stares at Robb as if he’s trying and failing to comprehend what this means and what he’s meant to do with it. “Robb,” he says, “We can’t. The, the guards-”

“No guards,” Robb replies. “Not tonight.”

“But the men. The men might hear.”

“What might they hear?” Robb whispers, drawing closer, one hand upon Theon’s cheek, not daring to caress him, worried it’ll upset Theon, make him feel as if Robb is treating him as a maiden and not a man, an equal. These things matter so much to Theon, it feels like it might break Robb’s heart. “We can be quiet. We have, before.”

The reminder isn’t meant to be cruel, but something pained haunts Theon’s features before it disappears into incredulity, a hot flush of anger staining his neck. Robb suddenly wants to put his mouth to Theon’s throat. He wants to taste the salt and sweat of his skin.

“Yes,” he hears Theon concede. “You think you can fuck me because you have, before? Because you’re king, now?”

“No.”

Theon falters. He has never been good with simple answers. One hand twists nervously in his cloak before he relaxes, forcing his shoulders down, staring at Robb with a lost expression that makes him think _I love a man without an identity. I love a man missing pieces._

“...kiss me, then. If you mean it. If you want me, still.”

Still, as if it hasn’t always been true. His desire for Theon has, at times, been so strong Robb was sure other people might smell it in the air in passing. He finds himself stepping forward, bringing them closer, chest to chest and nose to nose, breathing humid air, feeling Theon’s chapped lips briefly brush his own. “Never again,” Robb says, breathing harshly. “Don’t let us become this ever again. Please, Theon.”

A king commands. Robb pleads, unashamed, heavy with the burden of longing and losing in the same breath. Things will never be as they were, but it feels close enough, his hands on Theon’s shoulders, Theon’s eyes meeting his, head tilted defiantly, daring Robb to do more than talk.

He obeys, slanting his mouth over Theon’s, tasting the bitter ale on his tongue, savoring it for what it is: a moment of peace and familiarity during the chaos, Theon’s lashes brushing his cheek as he moves to deepen the kiss, wanton in a way he never is. Robb expected the usual aloofness from Theon, relieved nearly to the point of shattering with it, cupping Theon’s face in his hands and drawing him closer with an urgency that pulses in his ears, aching in his head, swallowing Theon’s startled moan as if it’s the cure to a poison lingering in his veins.

There is soft hair between his fingers, stubbled skin beneath his palm. “Robb,” Theon croaks, breathless and frightened, “I’m sorry. For-”

“I know,” Robb interrupts, pressing a kiss to the corner of Theon’s mouth, the downturned slant of it. “I know, I know. It doesn’t matter. Let me have this and it doesn’t matter.”

A manipulation, but a gentle one; it coaxes Theon into the surrender his rigid frame so desperately seems to need, his arms coming to rest around Robb’s waist, face tucked into the crook of his neck, warm breath leaving a damp spot on Robb’s skin. “Yes,” Theon tells him, as if the word can cover everything unspoken between them, the longing to be touched and touched thoroughly, the way he hasn’t been in months. _“Yes._ You can have it. You can have - me.”

Me. A word without substance, Robb muses, when so much of Theon has been left behind, the day he was told he could never go home again. Sometimes, Robb wants to ask him what it feels like to sail across the ocean, to feel salt water spraying across the deck and soaking your boots, your face, leaving dust in your hair. He wants to ask Theon questions he doesn’t want answers to, if only to hear his voice tripping over itself, shaking, unspooling like a length of yarn for Robb to reel in for himself. “I,” he begins, unable to find his voice for a second, his forehead tilted down to rest against Theon’s, “I want to see you.”

He means _I want to fuck you. I want to love you. I want you to let me._

Something in Theon’s eyes goes from silk to steel and then back to silk, conflict warring across Theon’s face, his hands gripping the front of Robb’s tunic tight, too tight. He looks at Robb as if he understands the longing; as if he feels the same, his mouth suddenly against Robb’s, his breath hot and tangy, teeth sharp on Robb’s lower lip. “Get on with it, then,” Theon groans, gripping Robb more firmly in his hands, wanting to disappear inside of him. “Or are you all talk, your grace?”

The few times Theon has bothered to call him by his newfound title, it has made Robb grimace. Right now, it brings a shudder to the very base of his spine, making him clutch at Theon’s waist, his hips, fumbling to get him undressed when his clumsy hands refuse to leave a place that they consider home. Theon is bonier, now, thinner from exertion, but Robb draws his hands across his body as if Theon still has the frame of a year ago, padded with muscle rather than sharpened to a point of almost-disgust, his ribs too visible. Robb refrains from comment. He is no better off, arms stripped down to sinewy definition, all traces of childhood softness gone.

He’d like to see a softness in Theon, once. Just the once.

“Tell me what you want,” Robb demands, his voice hoarse, hands pushing beneath Theon’s shirt where he’s struggling to wrestle it up and off. His bare skin is cold to the touch, a shock to Robb’s system, warm hands palming at Theon’s stomach, the slight dip of his waist. “All of it. Every thought that’s crossing your mind, let me hear it. Tell me how to fuck you.”

He can see Theon biting his lip, standing with his arms at his sides, working himself free of his breeches as Robb does the same. Torn between impatience and the wild urge to draw this out for hours untold, Robb exhales sharply and thumbs gently at Theon’s open mouth, his full lower lip giving where Robb pushes, because if there is one thing in this world that Theon always gives into, it is Robb Stark and his hungry gaze, sweeping across Theon as a starving man might eye a particularly tempting meal.

A shudder ripples up Robb’s spine. “If you won’t tell me,” he murmurs, leading Theon to the bed, into a sitting position at the very edge, stripped to the skin he was born in and beautiful even in his terror, reflected brightly in his eyes, those very same eyes that Robb can no longer reconstruct from memory in his mind, having gone so long without Theon’s gaze meeting his own, “I might assume you’d let me do anything.”

“Piss off,” he hears Theon manage through a strangled breath, “I’m not some hole for you to stick your cock into, _your grace._ Do - do it how we always do. How we used to.”

A fond hand strokes through Theon’s hair, Robb’s smile cracking in half as he takes in the sight beneath him, Theon’s chest rising and falling in shallow, even breaths and his hands clenching in the sheets, as if the anticipation alone is ruining him. “You used to be able to look me in the eyes,” Robb points out. “You used to kiss me, first.”

Theon sighs. “Don’t,” he mutters. “All that can wait. We’ll talk about it later. Just…”

Strong ankles hook behind Robb’s back, heels digging into sore muscle, Theon’s expression ending up surprisingly naked as he looks up at Robb, seemingly searching for something in his smile or the absence of one, eyes calculating in a way that’s terribly familiar. “You used to kiss me all over,” Theon blurts. “I used to pretend to hate it.”

Eyebrow raised, understanding it for the diversion and apology that it is, at once, Robb smiles with one side of his mouth and asks “It was pretend?” with a voice so amused Theon pinches him, scowling. He’s always had difficulty expressing himself in ways that don’t involve jests or fists, but for Robb, it had always been a comfort to know Theon would at least make the attempt with him. For him.

“Yes,” Theon whispers. “It was pretend when I said I preferred not to be fucked like a tavern whore, and it was pretend when I said I didn’t care. All of it, every damned contradiction, it was all pretend.”

A hand fists in Robb’s hair, forcing his head lower, forcing him to share Theon’s air as Theon’s expression turns to agony, his voice becoming tense when he mumbles “Whatever I am to you, you are twice that to me. Nothing can compare.”

Theon has never liked sentiment. Robb burns with how the confession settles in his stomach, understanding what Theon means without ever having the right words to string the feeling into something coherent, because how can there be words for the way this makes him feel - anger and despair and grief blooming into affection and hope and joy a moment later, a snake eating its own tail, repeating the cycle over and over?

If there is nobody he loathes as much as he does Theon, there is nobody he loves better, either.

“Tell me,” Robb asks again, burying his face into the curve of Theon’s thigh, mouthing where soft skin meets raised bone at the hip. “Tell me how to fuck you, tonight. How to love you.”

“You know how,” he hears Theon answer in a fractured voice, but a moment later, after a tremble and a seemingly eternal pause, Theon continues. “Your fingers, first. Two, then three. A little slick, from the lamp...your hand on my cock. I want you to talk to me.”

“What will I say?” Robb breathes, hating how this is an exercise in futility, because they’ve done this before; Theon will take his leave and Robb will ask for him back, forcing them to enact the same scenario over and over, their bodies unfamiliar to each other. He could relearn Theon’s shape a thousand times if he had to, but Theon’s mind becomes stranger and stranger to him with every time that Theon pulls away into himself, hiding another part away, Robb chasing him on broken legs, never able to catch up. Still, he asks. “What do you want me to say?”

“Tell me you love me.”

It is the great tragedy of his life, this moment, frozen in time, Theon Greyjoy asking for the simple truth as if it’s some great crime he’s committing by uttering the words. Robb has said them, before. Theon has never said them back.

The skin on the inside of Theon’s wrist is thin, veins showing through. It is sensitive, Robb learned some years ago, placing a kiss there with his fingers laced through Theon’s own, relishing in the small victory of Theon’s laugh, knowing better than to burden the moment with severity. If he doesn’t brighten the mood, Theon will do it himself, but Robb has no time and no patience for it.

He says it against Theon’s skin with his eyes closed. A confession in the dark feels far less momentous, far less likely to backfire on him. If he doesn’t have to see Theon’s face, then Theon won’t be angry that Robb has seen him vulnerable, which means that Robb kisses the part of Theon’s chest that sits right above his heart and sighs “I love you,” as if it makes any difference at all, as if love is what matters when there is so much more between them than that, emotions that run so deep there is no separating them.

In order to love Theon, Robb has had to endure hating him. It makes a strange sort of sense, he thinks, letting Theon’s fingers stroke his cheek, curl around his jaw, his grip unusually tender.

It must have been months, Robb thinks, since he last saw this look in Theon's eyes, the tender haze of longing clouding his gaze. “We don't have long,” Theon whispers, “Best get on with it.”

There's a layer of defensiveness to Theon that Robb still hasn't managed to chip away at, after all these years. Humming softly, Robb mouths at the expanse of skin between Theon's hips, one hand trailing up his thigh, curling around his cock, his other hand reaching for the lamp. The first time they did this, Robb was a nervous boy, his words shy, his touch shyer still, afraid to touch Theon and afraid of hurting him despite all the reassurances Theon had whispered in his ear. _Your cock isn't nearly monstrous enough to hurt me,_ Theon had chuckled and the comment had somehow been enough to relax Robb, emboldening him, ending the night with Theon's shaking legs around his waist and a flush high in both of their faces.

Their meetings no longer carry the same feeling of joy and guilty excitement, but Robb longs for it the same as he did back then. He would give Theon anything in this moment if he asked for it, but he seldom asks for things.

"We have all night," Robb reminds him before covering Theon's mouth with his own, muffling the throaty groan that sputters from Theon's throat as Robb's fingers caress and stroke and tease, slowly finding their way inside, Theon's body as familiar to him as his own, warm and welcoming and smooth. "I have you. Lie back."

Theon falters momentarily. "Won't you," he says, seemingly considering the words before he dares to utter them. "Won't you kiss me again?"

He recognizes the request for what it is - a plaintive longing to be cared for before their time runs out, a political alliance looming on the horizon for Robb. "Yes," he sighs, leaning down and feeling Theon's teeth against his lip, "You could ask for the fucking crown and I'd give it to you, Theon. I would give all of it to you."

He sees Theon's lips twitch into a smile, his hands framing Robb's face carefully. "I don't want the crown," he chuckles, his eyes bright once again, "I want the king."

It makes his heart soar, the fact that even now, with Theon addressing him as king, he takes liberties with his hands, touching Robb as if he is ordinary and attainable, a mere tavern boy looking for adventure in other men's sheets, but there have never been men other than Theon. There will never be another man after Theon, Robb knows, the grip and clutch of Theon's body around him reminding him of home and Theon's laughter muffled in his arm, Robb braced above him on unsteady knees, the two of them exploring each other without hurry. Home is more than a place. Robb has always known that.

He feels at home with Theon's fingers leaving careless scratches down his back, across his shoulders. He feels at home inside Theon, so deep it makes them both shudder, his hands braced on the bed and eyes locked on Theon's own, watching him for a reaction, for the breathless tilt of his head into the pillows, the raw red stretch of his mouth as he bites his lip to keep quiet. It is an oddly solemn moment, Theon's hand wandering to Robb's side, his waist, drawing softly across Robb's ribs, all the way up to his chin, demanding a kiss as he tugs Robb closer. "Robb," he breathes, his eyes closing, his expression and unashamed. "Robb, fuck-"

"I know," Robb whispers, as if he has any clue what Theon is thinking or what he means, but Theon laughs and moans in the same breath which means - yes, Robb knows exactly what Theon means, even if he can never find the words. "I know. Now and always."

"Now and always," Theon agrees, Robb's chest tightening with the sickening feeling that this moment will be the last of its kind, white lights dancing behind his closed eyelids, something icy squeezing around his heart, his hand squeezing around Theon's, a prayer building in his mouth to all the gods he can think of; _make him stay._

-

There are times where Robb hates Theon.

The times are few and fleeting, but they are there, existing in the space between Theon's shallow smiles and his talented hands wrapped around his bow, touch as tender as a lover's, or so Robb imagines. The first time he thinks that he might hate Theon, he is too young to know what a lover feels like,but in spite of that, he looks at Theon and feels a simmering resentment bubble beneath the surface, inching ever closer to the despairing affection that's infected his lungs. Years later, with Theon still remaining at his side, the hopeless feeling continues to grow.

Why him, of all the men in Winterfell? Why this one, bred from a hard land and raised as a cynical boy, becoming a man Robb cannot recognize yet desperately longs to understand? It has been so many years with Theon at his side, closer than ever now that it's war, yet more distant than Robb has ever seen him. There's flint in his eyes, whenever Robb happens to catch his gaze, which is less and less often these days.

It feels as if something rotten has burst inside of him, this feeling of resentment that builds by the day. He thinks he might have gotten so close to Theon that he no longer recognizes him, somehow, as if his affection passed straight through his friend and ended up drowning in a river somewhere.

Any other man, he thinks, but this one is the one he yearns for, in ways previously inconceivable, but Theon has grown tall and broad but beyond that, he's always been beautiful. To Robb, he has always been beautiful. 

Once, Jon joked that he and Theon seemed to be two parts of the same whole, delivering the sentiment with a face so long Robb briefly considered Theon being right about his brother never having smiled a day in his life before he managed to shake the thought. No, he and Theon are not two parts oiled to fit each other well, so the closest comparison to how they fit is simply this: they fit as well as a square peg attempting to fit into a round hole, their edges never quite matching up.

-

At feasts in Winterfell, Theon sits at the same table as the Starks, placed at the very end and opposite Robb, their feet occasionally meeting beneath the table in kicks neither of them deign to apologize for, preferring to wrestle each other playfully over the imagined slight. Sometimes, the lady Stark will scold them, but her mood seems to have made her forget that she disapproves of Robb's friendship with Theon, letting the two of them be left to their own devices, laughing and sharing drink as the night grows colder and darker.

As Robb places his hand on Theon's leg to gain his attention, stolen by a pretty girl navigating the crowd, Theon jolts violently and shifts out of Robb's reach, leaving him blinking in bewilderment, not quite understanding the sudden flush of Theon's neck and the startled look in his eyes. He seems a cornered animal, staring at Robb with something nearing betrayal. After a moment's pause, Theon makes an excuse to grab another tankard of ale off a servant, seating himself opposite Robb once again, shifting until their knees are no longer brushing, stealing a nervous glance around the crowded hall, as if anyone has paid them any attention at all since the feast began.

Nobody looks too closely at them. People seldom do.

As their gazes meet, Robb resigns himself to the fact that the depths in Theon's eyes are and will remain as unfathomable as the bottom of the sea, a hidden land lost beneath the waves. They bore into Robb's own across the table, something always separating them, reminding Robb of all the ways he cannot have Theon and all the ways that he never will, heat flooding his face, breath coming in a gasp once Theon looks away. Always looking away, Robb muses, avoidant, turning away when confronted with very little.

He seems obscene in his sudden timidity, not daring to look Robb in the eyes, scared of confronting himself with the base truth of having known him and known him well, loved him and loved him well, as if there is more shame to be found there than in cowardice. To hell with him, Robb thinks, leaving Theon alone in the hall, leaving Theon before Theon can leave him and resenting himself for it every step of the way.

-

ii.

_Theon_

Theon leaves his home as a boy. The second time that he leaves home, he is a man grown, smiling at Robb with all the reassurance he can muster, having a fleeting, foolish thought of what might be once he returns and restores the glory to their army and to Robb’s reign as king.

It makes him angry, truth be told, the desire to prove himself not only to his father but to Robb, the boy who became a man while Theon wasn’t looking and wormed his way into Theon’s life in ways nobody else has ever managed, but then again, nobody else has ever attempted to bring him into the fold quite like Robb has. It has always boiled down to Robb fucking Stark, Theon thinks, not quite certain of what to do with the bitterness warring with the affection that lives inside his chest, the dull ache of it rendering him nearly speechless with a trembling exhaustion.

He is tired, is the truth. He is tired of the conflict and the flinching from Robb’s hands that happens more and more often as the days go by.

But Theon is a Greyjoy, not a Stark - not even an Umber, or a Bolton. There is no reason he should hold allegiance to Robb and the men know it, every last one of them, staring with scorn and barely contained mirth as Theon trails Robb’s heels, as an eager pup would trot behind its mother, knowing nothing but adoration and need. “I’m not your pet,” he remembers telling Robb once, so long ago that it hardly matters right in this moment, having refused back then to let Robb’s wide-eyed hurt force guilt from him. He continues to refuse the guilt thrust upon him by his own affection.

To some degree, it is true that Theon is a tamed prisoner, but Robb has never been his warden and he never will be. Robb promises him that on the eve of his unofficial and sudden coronation, pinpointing the source of Theon’s unease and doing what he can to assure him otherwise. Still, it isn’t enough. Theon wonders when it ever will be enough, at this rate, between the wanting and the having and the running away.

He has few memories left of Pyke, fewer still that are pleasant. Theon remembers Asha, stone-faced as he walked away from the shore, led towards a life of uncertainty, but he remembers the jut of her chin and the wind blowing her hair around her face, whipping her cold cheeks. _I will see you soon,_ Theon had said, sure of it then in a way he no longer is. His sister had stared at him in a way that was unnerving, her arms crossed, an expression of almost-grief crossing her face as she replied _no. You will never come home again._

Years later, as he leaves Robb for the first and final time, the words ring true once again.

-

Before Theon ruins things beyond repair, he comes to a startling revelation. Winterfell's woods are quiet and barren, creatures asleep in the treetops and below the earth, Theon's breath leaving a cloud of fog as he moves between the trees with ease. He knows Robb is angry with him, angry at too many a rejection and too few reciprocrations from Theon, but there is little that can be done about that. It isn't the same, him making demands as Robb does; there would be no end to the headache if lady Stark found out where Theon has been spending his nights, sullying her golden child with the mere presence of his touch, but Robb will not stay angry for long, Theon convinces himself, trying to imagine what Robb might say once Theon visits him in his chambers again. Blinking, his brow furrows, struck with a sinking realization.

Theon can no longer recall the exact colour of Robb's eyes, or the reflection of the sunlight in his hair. It has been a long time since he felt Robb's bare skin against his own, warm during long winter nights, the two of them as close as two people can ever get and still with a distance growing between them. He did this to himself, Theon reminds himself, because he is a ward and Robb is heir, no possibility of a future between the two of them for as long as Theon bears the Greyjoy name.

He would gladly shed it, he muses, for the pleasure of freedom, but that's not the whole truth. Theon would gladly abandon his name for another, his heart constricting in his chest.

No, there is no future for him and Robb, he thinks, loosing an arrow into a bird, watching it fall, watching it die.

-

Theon is a Greyjoy and Greyjoys are bred from iron. Theon does not break as iron does; he does not break as a wave would upon the shore.

When Theon breaks, he breaks like porcelain, shattered before he ever registers the impact of being dropped, wondering if anyone else can see the parts scattered about, knowing all the while that it does not matter to anyone else.

Above him, the bastard stands. Above him, the bastard is removing his belt, knife handle held between his fat fingers, the smile on his face so serene it makes Theon’s blood run cold. For a brief moment, he tells himself he must be brave and resilient, but all thought of disobedience flees his mind the moment the knife settles against his skin, between his thighs, the curve of his back trembling all the while. Pride is the last thing on his mind.

Robb, he thinks. Robb would not allow this, but then he recalls that Robb is not coming. Even if he was, he would likely take his head, but perhaps that would be better, Theon thinks, knowing what awaits him after so long of enduring it. Fingers, first, then his teeth, his toes, perhaps his tongue if he doesn’t learn his lesson to keep quiet, but there is one last part of him that the bastard wants to carve out, looking entirely unsurprised as Theon flinches and strikes him with his better hand - not good, neither of them are good - but he doesn’t get far in his desperate attempt at escape, frantic as a rabid dog. The comparison is fitting, now. He does sleep with them at night.

“Please,” Theon says. It is far from the last time he says it, but it is the last time he means it, the word so desperate it makes him want to sob. He might already be sobbing, all things considered, but he is out of his mind with the terror and the anticipation of pain, forced flat on his back and held down by Ramsay, the knife drawing blood. “Please, please no, _please-”_

“Don’t you worry,” Ramsay laughs. “I’ll be gentle. You’ll hardly feel a thing, my prince.”

The blade is cold, makes Theon shiver, and a moment later he feels as if someone has shoved a hot poker through both ends of him, as if he is going to to suffocate on the pain, as if he is being burned alive and a chipped tooth breaks clean off as he locks his jaw, convulsing, before the scream tears from his throat and echoes around the chamber, his vision going white, agony lancing up his back with the force of a thousand lashings.

Robb would have let him die, Theon thinks, his mind going blissfully blank.

-

There is little left of Theon that still belongs to him.

Haunted men see ghosts, Theon knows, but even the ghosts have abandoned him. The memories remain; the Stark children laughing around every corner, Robb eating in the hall, Snow hacking away at a man made of straw...all these moments that are lost to him bring pains worse than the flaying to his stomach, his mauled feet leading him to a room he hasn’t been inside for years.

At this point, the guards pay little mind to him. Men pay no attention to ruined things, Theon thinks, but he will not be Theon for much longer. The urgency forces him to limp inside the room, unlocked and unguarded, deemed unimportant by Ramsay and his men, but it is the room of Theon’s worst nightmares and his sweetest dreams, Robb’s bed rumpled where the washerwomen stripped it of sheets and blankets. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine Robb filling the dreary, empty space once more.

His father prays to the drowned god. Northmen pray to the old gods, but Theon falls to his knees and prays to Robb, to the beheaded man who died hating him.

His prayers are clumsy. His tongue sticks to his broken teeth. “I would have done anything,” Theon beings, “Given anything. Anything to make it right.”

Tears are falling from his eyes, even as he squeezes them shut. It’s no use, his sobs echoing in the chamber, snow drifting in from the broken window, his hands clutching a blanket left beneath the bed, the very same quilt he and Robb had spent countless nights beneath, the very last thing Theon has left of Robb but the memories. “Please,” he chokes, breathing heavily, “Please, I would - anything. I would have died for you. I would have. I wish I had.”

He has lived a life of many regrets, yet nothing will ever compare to what he has done to Robb, what he has done to himself. The tears fall faster. He doesn't have long until Ramsay will come for him, but Theon rocks back and forth with the quilt clutched in his hands, sobbing for the waste he's laid to his home and his family, sobbing for the wretched creature he has become, his lungs straining with the exertion of it. "I never said it," he croaks, as if it matters years after the fact. He owes Robb at least this, he thinks, staring up at the ceiling, blinking away the tears that are clinging to his lashes and rolling down his cheeks, into his hair. "I never dared."

Theon says it to the silence of the room, shaking. "I loved you. That is - the one truth he cannot cut from me. He will not," Theon vows, praying for it to be true, closing his eyes as footsteps near the room, knowing what's coming, wondering what Robb would think of him, now, before he is dragged back where he belongs, laying sprawled in the dirt, loose thread from a childhood relic fluttering to the floor beside him. As Theon falls asleep, he thinks he almost smiles.

-

Jon Snow looks at Theon oddly.

Theon may not be much, deposited at Eddard Stark's doorstep as a burden he never asked for, but the little bastard boy roaming Winterfell at night looks at Theon with the intensity of a man wanting to solve a puzzle, staring as Robb takes Theon by the arm and drags him away for some imagined adventure or another, Snow's gaze burning holes in Theon's back the entire way to the hot springs.

"What, Snow?" Theon ends up asking during practice, once Robb is out of earshot, taking Snow by surprise as he corners him out of sight of lord Stark. "Why have you been staring at me?"

The difference is in the eyes, Theon decides, unable to stop comparing Robb to the bastard, taking in the stark differences between them. Where Robb is light, Snow is dark, his eyes staring at Theon in a measured way that makes his skin crawl, knuckles going white around his bow. "Spit it out, already. I haven't got all day."

"...the way you look at him," Snow finally says, shrugging his shoulders. "It's odd."

Theon's blood doesn't run cold, but it comes very close to it. He stares at Snow, wondering how he knows, how it's even possible for him to have noticed - but perhaps Theon hasn't been as careful as he had hoped, perhaps his eyes have traced Robb's shape with other people around, but the terror drains out of him as Snow mumbles "You look at him as if you'd die for him. It's strange."

Barking a laugh, Theon shakes his head. "You wouldn't understand," he grins, "Bastards don't understand these bonds, haven't you heard?"

He sees Snow's eyes narrow. He never makes a move to strike Theon back, instead choosing to lower his eyes and glance over at Robb, engaged in tickling Rickon, his shrieking laughter ringing out across the yard. "Should be careful how you look at him," Snow finally says. "Dying is a long way off, yet. Might not want to tempt fate."

For once, Theon finds he has no retort. He lets himself look at Snow, feeling uncomfortable, as if the two of them have reached a reluctant understanding despite all the bad blood they harbor for one another. "Don't be stupid," he eventually says. "I'm not dying for anyone."

"I know. You're selfish, that way."

There's a little smirk on Snow's face, an incredulous laugh torn from his throat as Snow's insult sinks in, Robb glancing over and jerking in surprise as he notices the source of Theon's mirth, watching as Snow leans a little closer, as Theon quirks an eyebrow. "He relies on you," Snow murmurs. "Don't make him regret it, Greyjoy."

I won't, Theon wants to say, but never quite manages, pinned between Snow's severe gaze and Robb's concerned one. I won't, he thinks, knowing even then that he has never been good at keeping promises.

-

The dungeon floor is cool to the touch; cooler still, considering that Theon is dressed in what amounts to rags, tattered and dirty, his still frame sprawled across the floor.

It won't be long now, he thinks, dizzy and so dehydrated he can no longer cry. It won't be too long, now, before he sees Robb, his eyelids fluttering weakly against the grime sealing them shut, his hands held close to his chest. In a moment, there will be no more pain, no more _Reek_ and, by blissful extension, there will be no more Theon, no more parts for Ramsay to flay and cut and take for himself. There will be something else, the place that comes next, the place where he will fall to his knees and beg Robb's forgiveness even if he doesn't deserve it, his teeth chattering as he smiles. He has no doubt that he has experienced things far worse than death, but a small voice inside of his head thinks that he would gladly take the flaying a hundred times over if he could go back and say the words to Robb, the right words, the promises he should have kept. There are so many things he wants to say.

Another minute, Theon thinks, his body growing heavy and numb, the blood pooling beneath him, spreading from groin to thigh to knee. Another minute before he disappears entirely, away from this place, into the sweet oblivion he's been denied for too long. Robb would have taken his head, he thinks deliriously, Robb would have known why Theon had done it if he had been given a chance, the end so close Theon can almost taste it.

He shudders, heart beating out its last, remembering the warmth of Robb's arms as he feels the world tilt and shut down around him, no more light, no more darkness, nothing but the sweet promise of relief existing in his mind.

Now and always, he thinks, laughing himself into useless tears; here the end comes, welcoming him, taking Theon home at last.


End file.
